And he laughed
by Lady Christina
Summary: Draco and Harry, alone in a dark alley after Hogwarts and after the rise of Lord Voldemort catch up and chat a bit. Of course, this isn't exactly tea time at Buckingham Palace and more then a few insults are thrown around.


And he Laughed  
by Lady Christina

  
_Spoliers_: Goblet of Fire  
_Rating_: PG  
_Summary_: Draco and Harry, alone in a dark alley after Hogwarts and after the rise of Lord Voldemort catch up and chat a bit. Of course, this isn't exactly tea time at Buckingham Palace and more then a few insults are thrown around.  
_Disclaimer_: This story is based upon a world created by JK Rowling and owned by Rowling, various publishers (including but not limited to Scholastic Books and Bloomsbury Books) and other companies, such as Warner Brothers. No money is being made from the distribution of this short story and no copyright infringment is intended.  
_Author's Note_: Special thanks to Arabella, from SugarQuill, for the BETA. This fic is also posted at TheDarkArts.org As always, comments would be appreciated but are by no means necessary.  
  
  
Harry Potter was running so quickly he thought his lungs would burst from exhaustion and overuse. Sure, flying could be tough, but he hadn't been running since Dudley's diet failed two years ago and Aunt Petunia had instated exercise regimens.   
  
He rounded another dark, dingy corner, and sprinted forward, determined to put more space between him and his pursuer. He tripped over a pile of rubble, but quickly regained his balance and surged ahead. Harry couldn't help thinking that this would be so much easier on a broom; at least then he wouldn't have to worry about ground conditions, and with his Firebolt he could travel much quicker. However, the Firebolt was not accessible now, (and never would be,) and Harry had to make do with what he had: nothing, save the legs he was running on.   
  
He darted around Knockturn Alley, taking full advantage of its various twists and turns. Left, right, sharp left, straight ahead. He didn't dare and look back to see if Malfoy was still following him; to do so would mean lost time, and the two were playing a game in which there were milliseconds between life and death. There was no time to be lost. Panic was starting to creep into his mind, but he vehemently tried to push the feeling away; it was times like this that a level head was the most important asset to have. Harry reached a fork, and veered right, hoping to confuse Malfoy. Blind with pain and panic he ran forward, not noticing the dead end until he was fifteen meters in front of it.

"Damn it!" Harry exclaimed, screeching to a halt. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do now? Malfoy's about to come, I can hear his feet pounding, and if he sees me I'm a goner..."

"Give it up, Potter."

Malfoy had just neatly rounded the corner, and looked lived. His usually perfect blond-white hair was disheveled, and his cheeks were red with effort. He was gasping for air, but tried to hide it; evidently he had been getting as little exercise as Harry had.

"You heard me, give it up. I've got you cornered, and no one's here to die for you. No mum. No Hermione. Hell, Weasley's not even here to save you; pity, I've always wanted to kill the nosing prat. Too bad. Still, it's you and me, all alone. And seeing as I've got the only working wand­"

At this, Harry glanced down dismally at his precious wand, which he had bought in Diagon Alley with Hagrid on that balmy afternoon before his first year. It had been so pretty that afternoon; not a cloud in the sky, but a light breeze, which cooled off shoppers. Harry fiercely wished to go back to the time when Diagon Alley was like that­so peaceful and free of Dark Magic.  
Turning his attention away from the happier time and back to the wand, Harry again noticed the rough edge on which it had split. Fawkes' feather was sticking out, and Harry had to resist the urge to rub it to comfort himself.

"­Pity yours broke. I was _so_ looking forward to dueling with you. Then, we would see who really was Head Boy material. I dare say we would have found out who would have been on top if Dumbledore had not stuck his overlarge nose into those matters."

"Leave Dumbledore out of this," Harry growled through clenched teeth. "He has nothing to do with this. Like you said, Malfoy, it's just you and me. You and me."

"Sticking up for the pillock again, are you, Potter? I guess it's only natural, since you _are_ The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Saved Everyone From Big, Bad Voldemort, The Most Feared Dark Wizard Ever. You'd never hurt a fly, would you? No, I suppose not, because you're too afraid of Dark Magic, and the powers it could give to you. After all, once you hurt something you're automatically a Dark Wizard, isn't that right? You're afraid that if you start to delve into the Dark Arts then your parents would have died in vain, trying to protect you. Well you know what, Potter?" Draco sneered at the other boy, then advanced towards him and in one deft movement had shoved him on the ground. "They did."

Harry didn't do anything but stare back at Draco, green eyes alight with defiance.

"Don't believe me?"

Harry finally found his voice, and spoke: "No. I don't. When have you ever given me the occasion to believe _you_, Malfoy?"

"Never. But that's not the point. The point is I've got a working wand and you don't," Draco said, clearly enunciating each word. It would have been clear to any passers-by he was enjoying this more then anything and intended to savor this moment. "The point is, there's no one here to die for you, and, well, I flatter myself to say I have a touch more experience with dueling then you do. So the odds are stacked against you."

"I've never been one for odds, Malfoy," Harry said, in an attempt to stall the inevitable. He knew Draco was right, and there was no way he could duel with him with a broken wand; hell, he'd have enough of a problem withhis wand. Malfoy had been raised to be The Perfect Dark Wizard, and he'd excelled with flying colors. He'd also planned this meeting with Harry without fault; he and Draco were alone, somewhere in the depths of Knockturn Alley. No one ever ventured down Knockturn Alley now that Voldemort had regained his powers, and precious few people ever went near neighboring Diagon Alley; the only people still in the vicinity most assuredly worked for Voldemort. It all made sense, because, after all; there was barely a ministry to speak of, and the wizarding world was in shambles; The Daily Prophet was still being published, but Voldemort had seized control of it too, and was using it solely to stir fear in the Wizarding community. Not a day went by without Dark Mark citings, and these were reported on the front page, along with full-color, moving photos and detailed descriptions of those dead. All of these precautions were working too. Things started to decline steadily downhill when _The Prophet_ announced Fudge, along with all top Ministry officials, had been given the Dementors Kiss.

Still, there were Resistance groups, working furtively to quell Death Eaters, who now numbered in the hundreds, if not thousands. However, when Dumbledore's death had been announced, and his rotting corpse had been displayed in the center of Diagon Alley, suspended in mid-air, people became frightened. More then frightened, really. They felt their only hope was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, and their pleading and cajoling for help finally led him to where he was right then. In front of Draco Malfoy with a wand being held steadily five feet in front of him.

"Of course you haven't, Potter," drawled Malfoy using the tone one would think he would use on a child. "You've beaten the odds every day of your life: the only person in history to survive the Avada Kedrava curse, lived through battles with Basilisks imprisoned for hundreds of years, freed escaped convicts, beaten my master more times then I would like to count. . . the list goes on. But we both already know what you've done, so why don't we talk about what _I've_ done?"  
Harry didn't dignify that statement with a response. Instead, he stared forward at the other boy, as if he was trying to imagine him slitting his throat, or some other equally gruesome task.

"No answer? Well, you're a bit cocky today, aren't you Potter? Fine, we won't talk about me, as much as I'd love to. Might I suggest we go back to the topic of your parents, the fine and illustrious Lily and James?"

Again, Harry didn't say anything, but Malfoy noticed his eyes began to blaze even more brightly.

"Yes, Lily and James, upstanding citizens of the wizarding world. Both Gryffindors to the core, and well-loved by both their teachers and peers at Hogwarts. Head Boy and Girl in their day, and model students all the way around. Lily was beautiful, with her long, flowing red hair, and always had her fair share of admirers; when she chose James to be her knight in shining armor there were feelings of dislike by many. Of course, with her looks and demeanor, who could stay mad at Lily Evans for very long? She was always the belle of the ball, a perfect flower, if you'll excuse my pun. And James? Well, he was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, excelled in all of hisclasses, especially one of the more difficult subjects, Transfiguration, was a member of one of the older pureblood wizarding families, and received admiration from a good percentage of the female population. He and his three best friends, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, were almost never seen apart; they were the 'dream team' of wizards that everyone wanted to be friends with, or at least seen with. Yes, that's what you've been told, isn't it, Potter? That your parents were perfect angels, with no faults whatsoever? I mean, sure, Lily could be a little forgetful at times, and James _did_ like to break rules, that's nothing major, was it? Certainly not enough to cancel out all their other esteeming qualities."

"Shove off, Malfoy."

"No, I'd rather not, but thanks for the offer. I'm _much_ more interested in the soap opera that's playing out before my very eyes. I must say, your defending your parents, the ones who died in vain, does not come as a surprising move on your part, Potter."

"You didn't know my parents­"

"­and neither did you. My Master took care of that quite nicely, I must admit, except for his whole dying thing. Quite an inconvience."

"_Your Master_," Harry spat, as if the words were harmful to his mental and physical being, "is nothing. He couldn't defeat me at a year and a half, and probably still couldn't. After all, he's sent you, a scrawny, seventeen year old   
seventeen-year-old _kid_, to kill me. A sure sign he is a bit afraid, wouldn't you agree? If he was all-powerful and unstoppable like you claim he is, why didn't he come after me himself, instead of sending you to do his bidding? I'll tell you: because he's afraid. Afraid of me and afraid of the very things I respect. I'm sure he can not possibly conceive why I would value life over death, kindness over killing. He's no less afraid of me then what you claim I am, Malfoy, although he's more skilled at covering it up. Of course, having you come after me was a red flag; it means he'd rather you get killed then be killed himself. Voldemort's­"

At the mention of his Master's name, Draco flinched backwards the slightest inch, but immediately regained his composure, hoping Harry wouldn't notice. He did.

"­afraid to hear his name, are you? You, who has pledged eternal devotion to him, cannot even call him by his proper name? Thanks, Malfoy. I needed a laugh right now, although I had no idea you'd provide it in such a hilarious fashion."

"Let's get one thing straight. I am _not_ afraid of my Master, Potter."

Harry nearly screamed in amusement, and had to calm himself down to deliver his rebuttal. "Then can you not say is His name. Voldemort? Did your father teach you to fear the name too?"

"No. I can say it," said Draco, stepping closer to Harry and leveling his wand with the other boy's chest. "Voldemort."

"Oh, nice job Malfoy, real brilliant. "Witch's Weekly Courageous Wizard of the Year" award goes to Draco Malfoy, for actually saying his master's name."

"Sod off, Potter."

Harry pretended not to hear Draco, and kept speaking, his sarcasm cutting through the still air: "Imagine actually saying the name of the person you've sworn eternal devotion to..._Imagine_ that. If you had asked me to even fathom that five minutes ago, I would have told you you were crazy. But now, thanks to you Malfoy, I canknow not only fathom it, but also picture it. Thanks. Be sure to send me a picture from your "Witch's Weekly" cover shoot, will you?"

"Shut your damn mouth, Potter. I should have killed you in our fifth year when I saw you walking alone outside. I so _wanted_ to. But my father said my Master had other plans for you, and so I stayed still. I've known the Killing Curse since, well, forever, basically, and it would have been very easy to practice on you. Then there was that time in the seventh year, when you had just found Weasley. Found Weasley _dead_, more precisely. You were so distraught over that Mudblood-lover your guard was down, and anyone could have made a successful attempt on your life. And, like I said, I would have welcomed the practice"

"So why don't you make up for lost time and kill me now, Malfoy? Or are you out of practice now?"

"If you insist."

With that, Malfoy whispered a curse, and Harry saw his lips move, clearly enunciating the most fatal pair of words in the history of the wizarding world: "_Avada Kedrava_."

He tried to move, but a split second was not enough time, and the green light stemming from Draco's dragon heartstring wand hit him squarely in the chest.  
As soon as it had started, the light was gone, leaving Harry sitting still in the alley with Draco across from him, still holding his wand pointed towards Harry's chest. Harry was in the same position he had been five seconds before.

Draco slowly lowered his wand, and, even more slowly, crept towards the other boy. He lifted Harry's head up, and then began to lift one of his eyelids, but stopped, because Harry's eyes were open. Draco pulled back in disgust, and let go of Harry's head. It fell towards his shoulder again, and then stopped moving  
_Potter's dead. The boy who lived, Harry Potter, the savior of all, and patron saint of Mudbloods and Muggles, is dead._

Draco Malfoy rose to his feet, and took several steps back. The enormity of the situation (that he, Draco Malfoy, had finally achieved his and his Master's goal and killed Harry Potter.) If there was any hope in the wizarding world of a rebellion now, it would be crushed when Potter's death was reported and his body was displayed. He took a few steps backwards, and threw back his head. And he laughed.

== 


End file.
